interview, checking for telltale signs of concern, or the knowledge that her husband might be lying when the matter of Hardcastle and Wyman being away together came up, but she hadn’t shown anything other than polite interest and vague amusement. She obviously had no fears on that score and was liberal enough in her outlook not to mind too much if her husband met up with a gay friend in London. There was nothing more to be learned from Derek Wyman right now, Banks thought, so he gave Annie the sign to leave.
B A N K S A N D Annie managed to grab an early lunch at the Queen’s Arms, already busy with earnest people in waterproof walking gear that warm wet Sunday in June. The rain had stopped when they left Wyman’s house, and the sun was breaking through gaps in the clouds.
Banks snagged a dimpled copper-topped table for two in the corner near the gents, while Annie went to the bar and ordered roast lamb 7 8 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
and Yorkshire pudding for Banks and veggie pasta for herself. Conversations buzzed around them, and the pretty blond schoolgirl working her weekend job as waitress, was rushed off her feet with orders.
Banks eyed his grapefruit juice with disdain and raised his glass to clink with Annie’s Diet Coke. “Here’s to working Sundays.”
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?”
“I think we’ve got a pretty good head start, at any rate,” Banks said.
“What did you think of Derek Wyman?”
“A bit of a trainspotter, really, isn’t he? An anorak.”
“You always say that about someone with a passion or a hobby.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Hobbies are so naff.”
“When I was a kid, everyone had a hobby. You had to have. There were clubs at school. Stamp collecting, making model airplanes, playing chess, collecting tadpoles, growing watercress, whatever. I used to have hobbies.”
“Like what?”
“You know, collecting things. Coins. Cigarette cards. Birds’ eggs.
Writing down car number plates.”
“Car number plates? You’re not serious?”
“Sure. We used to sit on the wall by the main road and write down as many as we could.”
“Why?”
“No reason. It was a hobby. That’s the point about hobbies; you don’t need a reason.”
“But what did you do with them?”
“Nothing. When I’d filled one notebook, I started another. Sometimes I tried to jot down the make of car, too, if I recognized it and was quick enough. I tell you, it would make our job a lot easier if there were more people doing that today.”
“Nah, we don’t need it,” said Annie. “We’ve got CCTV everywhere.”
“Cynic.”
“What about the birds’ eggs?”
“Well, you had to blow them, or they went bad and started to smell. I found that out the hard way.”
“
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
7 9
“I am. You made little holes in each end with a pin and—”
“Yuk,” said Annie. “I don’t think I want to know.”
Banks studied her. “You asked.”
“Anyway,” she went on, making a dismissive gesture, “that was probably when you were about ten or eleven. Derek Wyman’s in his forties.”
“Theater’s a valid passion. There’s nothing anoraky about it. And it’s a bit more cerebral than trainspotting.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Annie. “Don’t you think there’s something rather heroic and romantic about standing there in your anorak in the wind and rain at the end of the platform, open to the elements, writing down the numbers of the diesels that zoom by?”
Banks studied her expression. “You’re winding me up again.”
Annie smiled. “Maybe just a little bit.”
“All right. Very funny. Now what
“He had no real reason to lie to us, did he? I mean, he knows we can check his alibi. And he got all those receipts and stubs for us before we left, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “They turned out to be very handy indeed.”
“They were just in his wallet. Exactly where you’d put something like that.”
